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by Evandar



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 14:34:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1095104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evandar/pseuds/Evandar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after Monstrous Regiment. All Polly can do is wait for Mal to come back. Polly/Maladicta femmeslash</p>
            </blockquote>





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**Author's Note:**

> This is something I wrote two years ago in the middle of a Discworld reading marathon and I'm just transfering it across to here.

A slim thigh pressed into her socks and impossibly strong hands pinned her wrists to the tree trunk behind her, trapping her. Cool lips pressed against her throat, parting just enough for her to feel the scrape of fang on skin. A tiny part of her remembered that Maladict was a Black Ribboner and that she probably wouldn't end up bitten. That part was overwhelmed by two other, far larger parts of her brain. The first was the prey instincts, which left her with a burning urge to knee Maladict in the fork and run like hell, and yet kept her immobile with terror, staring wide-eyed up at the forest canopy with her heart racing. The second part simply noted that whatever the hell Maladict though he was doing felt wonderful and that he should certainly be allowed to do it some more, perhaps a bit lower _oooooh there_.

Heat spiralled in Polly's lower belly as fangs scraped down towards her collar bone, and she made a noise best described as "glaaaaaaaaaaarnghf".

Maladict hummed in agreement and flicked his tongue against her skin. Polly went "nyar", and the part of her that was enjoying the experience of being molested against a tree by a vampire buried its face in its hands from embarrassment. It wasn't really Polly's fault. The only other time she'd been in this sort of situation had been with an enemy soldier, and she'd kicked him in the fork before he could even try anything. Maladict had come upon her unawares, and she'd trusted him not to harm her even as his hand had gently guided her to a slightly more private area, and then he'd pounced before she could do anything about it.

And now she was pretty sure she didn't want to. As long as Maladict kept doing that thing with his tongue.

But of course, he chose that moment to draw away, as if he'd read her mind and chosen to be a complete bastard about it. He looked down at her and raised an eyebrow. It took Polly a moment to recognise which eyebrow it was – Maladict had legions of moods, sayings, jokes and humerous anecdotes that could be expressed with the raising of a single eyebrow; the trick was just in translating it – and that it was a question. _Are you okay with this?_

She leaned up and forwards as best she could and kissed him. It was awkward. Their noses bumped.

"You should probably know I'm really called Maladicta," Maladict said.

Somehow, that didn't surprise her all that much. She'd half suspected to begin with, and according to several folk songs Maladict had been entirely too…soft in the sock drawer to match his previous actions.

Polly blinked, realising that she'd not actually mentioned her real name before either. "Polly," she said.

…

"I have to…have to," Maladicta was still coming down from the coffee high and the reality of how close she'd come to losing her ribbon was beginning to sink in. "Go. Sort myself out for a bit. Find a necklace made of beans, or something." She wasn't looking directly at Polly. She'd chosen to focus on her left boot instead, and her hands kept clenching into fists as if the feel of claws in her palms was going to make her feel better.

Polly lit two cigarettes and handed one over. Maladicta took it gratefully and leaned back against the castle wall. She still looked elegant.

"It's not that I don't want to come with you. I do. I just want to make sure I can do it without, er, you know. Um."

Polly got it. Really, she did. "I'll be at The Duchess in Munz if you want to find me." She took a drag of her cigarette and let the smoke unfurl slowly from her nose. "It's home," she said. "You're welcome there." She supposed that passed as an invitation to come in, even if they weren't actually there.

Maladicta grinned weakly, flashing just a hint of fang. "Thanks."

…

The Duchess was the same as it had always been. Her father was still there, looking wearier than he had before, but Widow Clambers was there as well – although she wasn't quite a widow anymore, nor a Clambers. The same men were propping up the bar and clutching at tankards, grumbling about wars long over and the Duchess – the dead one – and the death of Nuggan – about time really. The same sword rested by the fireplace, ready to poke logs into prime burning position.

It still smelled of stale beer and smoke and sweat and mud trodden in by the boots of working men. Polly took a deep breath and smiled. It smelled like home. All that was missing was the musty smell of vampire, tinged with coffee.

Settling back in again took some time. At least it did for Polly. Shufti and Paul managed alright, and soon they were settling into each other as well. Polly, on the other hand, was always on the lookout for fine dark hair and sardonic eyebrows, a cape and the smell of coffee. Maladicta had wormed her way under her skin somehow, and was refusing to leave, even in her absence.

It could have been the thrall – anyone who knows anything about vampires knows that they can make humans do anything they want them to. But Polly didn't think it was. For a start, if it was the thrall, she wouldn't still believe that Maladicta was an arrogant bastard, or that her habit of gambling everyone she met out of their wages was the most annoying thing she'd ever seen. She also didn't think that the thrall would have lingered on like this with Maladicta gone and not in contact.

So she threw herself back into the familiar work of her childhood and tried to pretend that she wasn't homesick – heartsick – for a vampire corporal. She poured beer, listened to war stories and shared a few of her own, babysat baby Jack, swept the fireplace and tossed buckets of water at the privies every morning and evening while trying not to breathe. It was monotonous, and excluding the storytelling, boring. It gave her time to think, which probably wasn't a good thing, because her thoughts automatically turned to Maladicta and how much she wished she would just _hurry the hell up already_. Hurry up sorting out her existential crises and come _home_ because home wasn't home without Maladicta in it, regardless of the fact that the vampire had probably never set foot in Munz before, let alone The Duchess.

At night, when the patrons had been poured back out onto the streets and the bar locked up, she'd retire to her cold bed in her lonely bedroom and push her face into her pillow, trying not to scream.

…

Her hair had just managed to grow long enough to be irritating when it happened. The ends of it were starting to curl into ringlets once more, reminding her of the hair Strappi – the _bastard_ – had stolen from her pack. By association, it reminded her of other things Strappi had stolen, like Maladicta's coffee (and, therefore, her sanity), and that led to her thinking that if Strappi hadn't been such a political wanker then she might actually be happy.

And then it happened. In a moment of such effortless drama that Polly knew it had been practised on the journey to Munz from wherever, because not even Maladicta was that flawlessly cool.

It was a warm summer's evening and the beer was flowing nicely. Loud chatter filled the bar and Polly fought to keep a smile on her face while wishing quite emphatically that she was somewhere else. Shufti and the-not-so-Widow Clambers ("just call me Tillie, my dear") were behind the bar and Paul was hauling barrels up from the cellar, where her father was rolling them out of storage for him to bring up. It was one of those summer nights, when the local pub manages to contain the whole town.

Polly was clearing tables and trying her hardest not to break the arms of the men who decided that pinching her bottom was a good idea, despite the fact that she was – had been – a soldier just like the most of them.

Then the door swung open and the chatter died down to what can only be described as deathly silent. A vampire was standing in the doorway. Polly watched as she sauntered across the room towards her, a bag slung casually over her shoulder. Maladicta's hair was still cut short, but it was slicked back in a traditional widow's peak. You could have cut diamonds on the neatly pressed creases in her suit. The hilt of a sword poked out from under her cloak – for other peoples' protection, of course, because Maladicta _clearly_ wasn't enough of a walking arsenal on her own – and fangs shone in the low lighting as Maladicta's most charming smile was aimed quite firmly in Polly's direction.

It was like being hit by a great big fish.

By the cellar door, Paul froze with a barrel still under each of his arms. Widow – _Tillie_ – was gaping, a pint mug steadily overflowing onto the floor. Shufti was smirking, and when Polly caught her eye over Maladicta's rapidly approaching shoulder, she winked.

Then, Maladicta was inches away from her. The smell of grave dirt and coffee and vampire filled her nose, and Polly found herself unable to move – or resist – as Maladicta took her hands into her own. They were as cool and dry as Polly remembered, which was unfair as her own were quite sweaty.

"Er," she said. Eloquently.

"I'm not too late, am I?" Maladicta asked. "Only, it's a long way to Überwald and there was family drama and _gods_ my family are Abominable." She quirked an eyebrow. "They tried taking over Lancre by adding too many 'y's to things and being clever. Obviously, it didn't work and now my great-uncle's been resurrected to run thinks again – thankfully – but Lacrimosa and Vlad are both sulking terribly, and none of them really approved of me anyway since they think _I'm_ the strange one and –" she faltered for a moment and drew an unnecessary breath "- I'm rambling, aren't I Poll?"

"Er, yes," Polly said. "A lot." She managed, somehow, to pull her hands free of Maladicta's grasp. It wasn't difficult, which meant that she was probably being given a choice to run screaming or grab a stake or something, but she couldn't help but notice the hurt look that flickered across pale, perfect features. The eyebrow lowered. A mask slid into place.

Polly grinned and flung her arms around Maladicta's neck, clinging on tight just in case Maladicta decided to vanish again – in which case, she probably would have hunted her down with a stake. Slim, strong arms rose to wrap around her waist, and she tilted her head slightly to the side so that Maladicta could press her face into Polly's neck and inhale and gently scratch her with her fangs the way she had done before everything had gone to hell. And she did.

Behind the bar, Shufti grinned, cleared her throat loudly, and rescued the overfull mug from Tillie's hands before setting it on the bar with a clank. That clank held a message. Slowly, the chatter began to build back up again – the patrons tactfully avoiding the v-word – and Paul stumbled back into motion again, leaving Polly and Maladicta stranded in a sea of industrious not-looking-at-the-vampire.

Polly drew away slightly, but only so that she could lean back in for a kiss. "Welcome home," she said.


End file.
